


A Chance Meeting

by Gildaurel



Category: Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-29 14:29:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16266128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildaurel/pseuds/Gildaurel
Summary: Vanyel never succumbs to Stefen's temptations at Forst Reach, rejecting his love as a mere crush. Forced to travel north for several years (though Savil, he and Yfandes live in this version), he grows apart from Stefen. When they happen to meet again as tensions rise on the Karsite border, they have trouble resisting each other...





	1. Chapter One

The air curled up from the ground, hot, dusty, and thick with old battle-dirt. Stefen let Melody pick her dainty way down the rocky path back toward the border town he was currently frequenting, fair aching for a good meal and a mug of ale. _And possibly more, if Declan is free for a candlemark._  It felt somewhat ironic to be thinking of Declan when riding Melody, but if he were to pause his life for all that Vanyel had gifted him, he’d be walking in slow, unpleasant circles. _And he’s the one who turned me away. I offered my heart…_

That _still_ rankled, five years later. He had been so sure that his feelings were not unrequited, that he had seen glimpses of attraction and more in Vanyel’s eyes. But the second he’d mentioned love, Vanyel had shut down entirely. _He was so cold about it all, methodical and mechanical, explaining my own feelings to me: “you’re obviously infatuated.” How arrogant._

He dropped the pointless thoughts; he could never stay mad, at any rate, nor shake his damnable attraction. _Every time I glimpse him at Council, my mind betrays me._ Those months they’d been close friends blurred in his memory, soft, warm, and golden-lit with an intensity of want and feeling he’d never imagined before or since. _My flirtation with a demi-God._ He had known then and knew now, with a bone-deep certainty, that he _had_ been in love. _Worse, that I would have been more fulfilled with him—more complete—than with anyone else._ Yet the depression he’d sunk into after the rejection, coupled with the nail-biting months of waiting to hear whether Vanyel was alive or dead after his excursion to the northern border were… _nothing I’d ever want to go through again. When he did finally return, he barely had two words for me. Or anyone save Savil and Jisa, after Randi and Shavri..._

So he’d moved on, made himself useful, left Haven and its comforts behind. He dropped back in to Bardic every so often, composed songs about his travels, gave a few exceptionally well-received recitals, then went on his way again. With the Karsite border heating up unexpectedly, Treven had actually given him a mission this time, hoping his voice and gift could keep the troops in better spirits. _Nobody wanted to go through this damned war a second time._ His thoughts almost strayed to Vanyel once more, in their traitorous nature, but he stopped them short. _If I happen upon him out here, so be it. I can’t avoid him forever._            

The clay roofs of the village dotted the horizon red, the odd houses sharpening into their dome-like forms as he drew closer. _Finally. That’s the last time I step out for a ride without knowing the way._ Judging by the angle of the sun, he had but a bit of time to himself before the soldiers poured into the town’s main tavern—now its only, as the proprietors of the other two had fled potential conflict. They’d be thirsty, tonight; boredom and heat combined to make a restless company. _It’s almost like they’re hoping for real fighting—dreading it, too, but this endless waiting is a different sort of torture. Rumor has it we’ll attack within the week._

He threaded the streets with practiced ease; all these towns were made the same, concentric circles about a market square. A few soldiers in dusty blue nodded at him and he smiled back. _I do like this work, though. You can’t help but feel incredibly useful, enough to forget anything but the moment._ Reining Melody in as he reached the square, already thronged with people, he dismounted and headed to the large central building he currently called home. _No time for myself after all, I don’t think. There’s far too many here already._ _Ah, well. At least it’ll be a lively night!_

A candlemark later, he was starting his third set, hands and voice warmed up by the eager audience and two mugs of fairly decent ale. He took a long drink from his glass and strummed his gittern in a well-known, upbeat melody.

“Well?” He called out to the crowd.

“Demonsbane!” One soldier yelled, raising his tankard.

_Dear Gods, no._

Another hand shot up. “Demonsbane!”

A group by the bar looked over with interest, beginning a sort of chant.

“Demonsbane! Demonsbane!”

 _In for a sheep…_ “Fine. Your wish is my decree,” he echoed back, playing the first bars and working out the tricky fingering. He was focused enough not to really register the disturbance at the back of the room, to only be peripherally aware of it, as he drew into the opening bars and the full breadth of his gift.

When he began to sing, he knew what he was projecting.


	2. Chapter Two

Vanyel could not think to still the pounding in his head, barely lifting his eyes to note the signpost; he trusted Yfandes to find the rest of the way. _I’m getting too old for this._ He’d passed through Savil’s Gate alone three days ago— _they could spare no one else—_ but it might as well have been yesterday, even after he’d taken the forty-eight full hours of rest.

 _It’s not as if these years have been easy on my body… or my heart._ He felt a soul-deep weariness at that thought, at all the friends’ deaths and the world’s miseries that weighed with soul-stabbing grief on his memories. _And little enough joy to balance the pain._ He shouldn’t brood, and Yfandes’ worry pulled at him through their bond, but he didn’t loosen his shields. He hardly ever did, anymore—not since his… captivity.

He shied away from the thoughts; he’d spent enough time with Moondance and Starwind to heal as fully as possible, though Moondance’s words still stung like salt on his wounds— _you need, more than anything, a loving touch to wash away Leareth’s evil—_

Yfandes’ worry was sharpening now, pricking at his mind and breaking the train of thought enough that he pulled his head up just in time to realize they were actually entering the town.

:I didn’t mean to intrude, love, but you might want to pull your hood up.: Her Mindvoice rang with affection and lightly-masked concern.

:Thank you.: Drawing his cloak closer, which surely looked odd in this weather, he nudged the air around him into a minor illusion—a waste of power, perhaps, but he had the magical reserves to spare. _Not the emotional. My wits are rubbed raw, and fawning admirers would drive me over the edge._ Anyone looking at him would see whatever seemed ordinary and unremarkable, a glamour he could at least hold until he made it to the inn.

 _Somewhere warm, and safe, where I can slip into a corner with a mug of ale and a plate of food._ He’d known as soon as the Karsites attacked beyond the disputed territories that he’d be called down, but he hadn’t expected it to be so soon. _It feels like I just got back from re-confirming Randale’s old treaty with Rethwellan. Thank the Havens they seemed pre-disposed to like Treven and help us in this fight._

:They like you too.: Yfandes sent an accompanying mental smile and he felt his lips curve in response. He hadn’t meant to project the thoughts, but her flattery always helped his spirits.

:Surprising, considering.:

:Considering what?: Yfandes seemed generally surprised by the comment.

:Their views on my… lifestyle.:

:They aren’t opposed to celibacy, are they?: The image of Saint Thiera she sent softened the blow of her words to more of a quip than a serious comment, but still. They cut a bit close to the quick.

:’Fandes, I’m not…never mind.: He closed the contact, not harshly as he might once have, but gently and firmly. They’d made their way unnoticed to the town’s only inn and its stables; he let the glamour slip as he handed Yfandes off to the stable boy, whose eyes widened in mute shock.

Vanyel pressed a silver in his hands and a finger to his lips, and the youngster took Yfandes’ reins, mouth still gaping soundlessly. He fought the urge to sigh. _This is going to be a_ very _long night._

*** 

The tavern’s main room had been far more packed than Vanyel would ever have really liked, and he hadn’t been able to hide his face, eyes, or hair enough to avoid notice; the entire back section had craned their heads around in amazement and frank curiosity. _And fear. Always the fear._

But he had to eat, so he slipped into a corner table and prayed that nobody would actually approach him besides the barmaid. When the early notes of the song hit his ears, he realized it had very much been the wrong prayer. _No. Oh, no, no, no._

He didn’t dare look up to see who was playing; it would only invite more stares and questions. It was surely some new-made Bard trying to prove his or her worth with the tricky fingering. _Doing a damn good job of it, though,_ he thought despite himself.

The voice that joined the music eliminated any need to lift his head at all.

_Oh, Stefen…_

He would have lost himself in his memories if not for the insistent, powerful pull of Stefen’s gift, weaving the song into the very marrow of his bones and painting a scene of himself in—

_Dusty whites, tired, lonely, but beyond handsome—features sketched by a master, eyes deeper than pooled starlight—yes, powerful, so powerful, but alone, and cold; a noble man who devoted every bone in his body to duty—the temptations so fruitless for this paragon of honor… this paragon whom nothing could tempt, not ever—and the pain, the exhaustion no match for the will or mind—the foolish, petty lord so simple beside the depth of the Herald’s soul---and this, a representative of all that Valdemar was and meant—the reason they all fought--_

He shuddered into himself as the song drew to a close, but to no avail. Every eye in the room was turned toward him, and as he looked up, it was straight into sweet, shocked hazel ones.

The entire room spun and his eyes pricked. _It’s been too long, and I never had the chance to tell you any of the things I wanted to. You meant more to me than I could begin to realize then…_

Murmurings of the crowd at their long, silent, unbroken stare interrupted his reverie; Stefen, seeming to sense his desperation, raised his own glass with a crooked half-smile.

“To Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron himself!”

Vanyel raised his glass in weak, trembling hands. _You told me you loved me and I_ knew _you meant it, I could Feel it, but I wouldn’t let myself… and, dear gods, I sent you packing like it was a schoolgirl crush._ He hoped his face, at least, was inscrutable, but he couldn’t take much more of the attention.

Stefen, perceptive as always, drew the focus back to the stage with a short, rather spectacular melody he was clearly improvising— _and that, too. A brilliant musician, a beautiful body and soul—_ when Stefen began to launch into another song, Vanyel took advantage of the crowd’s distraction to study him through half-closed eyes.

In the last few years, the Bard had only grown handsomer, his features more refined, his eyes seeming to hold more depth. His shirt strings were loosened, the cloth slipping off— _of course; he never did pay attention to how his clothes were meant to be worn—_ and his chest and shoulders were clearly muscled, despite his slender build; for once, he filled out his clothes reasonably well.

_Surely the opposite is true for me. I look thinner, older and more tired with every passing day, it seems. Would he even want me?_

Vanyel shook himself out of the thought with surprise. _Why would I think that? Havens, we’re at war; I’m not here for a dalliance_. Not that it would ever be just a dalliance with Stefen. _I hadn’t let myself get that close to anyone in years. It still hurts…_

He looked down at his virtually untouched meal with little appetite. _I suppose I have to eat_. The crowd seemed to have forgotten about him; the ribald song Stefen now was playing was a current favorite, one that Vanyel had recently realized he’d composed himself.

Taking a first bite, then a second with more enthusiasm as the meal proved better than expected, he let himself relax enough to appreciate the song, if not the associated projections. _What a fool I was. I thought he didn’t even know himself; that he only thought he might be_ shaych _for his “infatuation” with me._ Enough Palace rumor had reached him since, and he’d seen enough interactions from afar to know that Stefen was well and truly _shaych_ , that he did not care to hide it in any way, and that he had most certainly moved on from Vanyel— _as I told him to, so I have no right to begrudge him his life._  

Still…the way he’d looked at him just now had Felt charged with emotion. _But what does that even mean? I don’t know what I truly feel or want._ He couldn’t just force himself back into Stefen’s life; he’d guessed and Medren had once told him how much pain he’d caused him. _I handled it so very poorly._ Not that he regretted turning him down, exactly— _because what would I have done, begun a relationship then disappeared to the North and the Vale for two years? It was exactly what I feared would happen if I was ever actually invested in someone._ Yet he could have acknowledged his own attraction, his own desire and caring— _not left Stef feeling a besotted idiot._

He pushed away his now-empty plate with a sigh, looking up at the raised platform where Stefen played just in time to witness a handsome, dark-haired man in Healer’s Greens laying a hand on his shoulder. When Stefen turned to face the man, the look they exchanged was easy enough for Vanyel to interpret, even from the back of the room. The surge of jealousy that stabbed his gut shocked him.

 _Gods, he never has bothered to hide what he likes. Or who he’s doing it with._ And, quite frankly, nobody seemed to bat an eyelash. _Must be more acceptable for Bards than for national heroes…_

The man left the stage and Stefen smiled winsomely at the crowd. “One last song, then, to end the night.”

It began sadly. Tugging and pulling at the edges of his mind, the melody whispered of true love left behind, of the world and all its obligations putting a wall, unclimbable and reaching ever-higher, between would-be lovers. But before the strains could sink him fully into depression, the chorus shocked him into almost-laughter, a bawdy contrast of finding casual comfort and…other things.

The crowd went wild. This was what they wanted, anyways: a distraction, a song to laugh and possibly even make love to. But somehow, as the song slipped into its melancholy verses again, Vanyel could not help but think it was not altogether a joke. And the look in Stefen’s eyes, as he met Vanyel’s one final time, was neither light-hearted nor painless.

*** 

“We’re moving out tomorrow.” Declan lay shirtless on the bed, one arm behind his back. He’d thrown his boots by the door, but hadn’t bothered to remove his breeches yet; Stefen sensed his distraction and worry. _No Healer likes death._

“Who told you?”

“Major Tillson. He said that’s why the herald-mage is here—he’ll give the troops cover for the march, then draw the Karsites out of Weston.” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “Did you get a good look at him?”

“Who?” Stefen stowed his gittern carefully under the bed, looking up from a crouch.

“Who else? Herald-mage Vanyel Ashkevron—firelord, demonsbane, the Hero of the north?”

Stefen sighed and sat back on his heels. “I saw him.” _Please don’t press._ He already regretted having invited Declan up earlier; had he known Van would be making an appearance, he would have known he’d desire only solitude.

“Oh, that’s right! You worked with him, before. Gods,” Declan murmured, sitting up.

“What?”

“I mean, the legends say he’s handsome, but holy hells. He looked more god than man.”

Stefen muttered something non-committal in response. _Can we not discuss Van’s physical merits right now?_ He’d noticed; of course he’d noticed. It was impossible _not_ to notice what Vanyel looked like, even with the strain and exhaustion obvious in his face and figure.

“Don’t pretend you don’t think so. I know your type.” Pulling off his breeches, Declan fell back against the pillows again. “He did look older than I imagined, though.”

“He _is_ in his mid-forties,” Stefen felt obliged to point out. _This conversation really isn’t helping me feel any more inclined to engage tonight._

“That old? I suppose so… I remember, my first year as a Trainee, they were already singing songs about him.” Declan paused. “At any rate, we move at dawn. You should get some rest.” He threw a pointed look at Stefen, who was busy pouring himself a glass of water.

“Yes, ma.”

Declan laughed, his look darkening as Stefen tossed his clothing to the side. “Well, we don’t have to rest.”

 _I can’t…_ ”Not tonight, lover.” Stefen’s smile, he hoped, would soften the blow. “I’m tired, and now I know we do need to wake early.”

“Your loss.”

Stefen merely grunted in reply, snuffing out the lamp and curling up into the near side of the bed. _Gods, will I never get over him? Van…_


	3. Chapter Three

The morning dawned colder and grayer than he’d expected. Huddling into his cloak and eyeing the ominous sky, Vanyel wondered if he’d have to add weather-working to his endless list of tasks. _Good thing I’m better at prioritizing than I was twenty years ago._ Before the sun rose, he’d already strengthened the shielding on himself and the commanding officers, set in place the magical groundwork for a masking illusion for the troops, leveled several natural barriers to speed the company’s progression, and Farseen to the battleground. _Major Tillson is certainly competent and efficient._ He was grateful, in a way. The night before had thrown him far more off balance than he’d expected, and the work made him feel more himself again.

_I was rather eager to get out of my cold, empty bed anyways._ He rode alone now toward Weston; he’d already Seen the Karsite encampment and knew that their troops would be no match for Valdemar’s on open grounds. They had two Master-class mages, though, and the current literal upper hand, as they perched menacingly in the town’s relatively impregnable defenses. _Gods save us all from mountain town sieges._

His plan was to wreak such horror and chaos that they had to vacate the inside, but. _That means Weston won’t exactly be inhabitable for the foreseeable future. Not that many of its citizens survived the initial attack._ With no mage cover and a small garrison, the town had been easy pickings for the magically-supported Karsite troops, despite its strategic location.

_But those mages are no match for me. It’ll only take me a moment to smash them to pieces._ He felt the echo of Yfandes’ amusement and grim determination at the thought.

:I have no sympathy for those who murder and terrorize the innocent.:

:Neither do I. Not anymore.: He knew his comment needed no explanation; not with what they’d witnessed together in the brutal northern wastelands. _It was far worse than anything I might meet out here. And these charlatans are not Leareth._ The name still inspired slight shivers in his spine. _I was well and truly innocent as to what power theft actually felt like._ Moondance had compared it to rape, when he’d helped Heal him afterwards; Vanyel wasn’t sure what would have been more of a violation for him— _I think I’m more used to emotional torment. I’d probably take Leareth’s blood theft over the physical, given a choice._ But it had been hard to trust himself and his magic again, and after what he’d seen Leareth do with power, he’d had to be convinced it was even worth using again, ever, for any reason.

The scrubby bushes were giving way to clearer road, now. Yfandes picked her way up a rocky side path, no longer trusting his illusions on the main road. :We’re almost close enough, love.:

She sent him a nonverbal assent. He was ready, as ready as he’d ever be, and he certainly no longer feared what he could do. _Moondance did remind me of what I’d known for so long: that violence could lead to good, and that power in the right hands was worth having. But still. It’s not an easy line to walk._ What he would be doing today was the perfect example: was it fair, exactly, to loose _sandaar_ on unsuspecting soldiers? _Not that I pity them; I saw the survivors straggling on the road when I first came in. They’d been brutalized and driven out. The children…_

Yet it felt a bit like stabbing an enemy in the back. _I could moralize about it all day; it won’t change what I need to do. And they used their magic on the defenseless citizens._

Yfandes had made her way as high as she could; he dismounted and crept the rest of the way up the hilltop, tweaking his illusion mask as best he could. _Those mages might not be able to See me with Othersight, not with my shielding, but the naked eye could certainly spot a man in white._

From the peak, he could just spy the parapets of Weston’s outer walls, clumsy, ugly stone things that served but one purpose: keep the Karsites out. Now, ironically, they were dotted with soldiers in gold and red. Farseeing directly into the town, Vanyel finally Saw, in the town courtyard, a man on a horse shouting orders to two others in robes. _The mages. They must know our forces have started moving, if not exactly where. Even with my illusion, there are spies enough lingering about the towns to let them know._

He pulled as much node energy as he could into himself, feeling his channels brimming, almost over-full, then loosed it in one straight arrow of force directly onto the first mage. The man went up like a bonfire, the raw energy shattering his shields, bits of ash spraying the officer on horseback and the other mage. For a moment, both stood still; then, with screamed oaths, they shot in opposite directions. _Choice. Now._ _Mage, always the mage._

With much the same technique, he managed to target the other mage just before he fled into a building; the man attempted to roll into the shelter, but Vanyel’s Farsight saw him burned through. _Now we deal with the rest._ His temples were throbbing and he knew he couldn’t hold this sort of Farsight-driven magic much longer, but a _sandaar_ or two didn’t require much work. He muttered the quick summoning ritual, then Sent the two elementals on an air-borne track directly into Weston.

When he fell back into his body, his head felt fit to explode and his hands shook with the force of extended casting. Aching and trembling, he half-crept, half-dragged himself down the hillside to where he’d left Yfandes.

:Are you all right, Chosen?:

Even Mindspeech hurt. :I will be.:

Sensing his discomfort, she didn’t Speak him further; instead, she bent far enough that he could clamber onto her back and strap himself into the saddle, swaying with exhaustion.

Fittingly, the sky chose that moment to open up and pour its contents down upon his head.


	4. Chapter Four

The battle was a rout. For the past two candlemarks, Stefen had been Singing to the injured Valdemaran soldiers in the makeshift healing tents he’d helped Declan set up just behind the battlefield, but there were far fewer than they’d expected. Those who could speak conveyed that the Karsites had fled Weston in total disarray, scared shitless by whatever the hell “the great Herald-mage had cast and wrought out of thin air.”

When the Valdemarans fell upon them, they’d had no time to regroup or formulate a plan, and with inferior numbers, they’d never stood a bit of a chance. _Not with Vanyel on our side. Though he didn’t cast during the actual battle._

That was another question. All the commanding officers had already returned to the muddy mess of a campground; there’d been some talk of returning to the small town they’d left, but it was half a day’s ride and the battle had ended at dusk. The only person still missing was Van. _We’d know if he’d been hurt, right?_

It made sense that it would take him longer to return, seeing as he’d ridden twice as far as they had, but he would have started back even before the battle had begun. _I hope he’s all right._ Nobody seemed concerned in the slightest; in fact, when he’d mustered the nerve to approach the stern-faced major, the man had actually chuckled and asked him if he really thought it was so easy to kill the Firelord.

_They don’t seem to understand that he’s human, and he has limits._ Stefen could still recall the many times Vanyel had pushed himself too far simply performing his Palace duties, and had sat nursing a throbbing headache at the end of the night. It was only too easy to imagine what he could do to himself on a battleground. _He would never stop, no matter what parts of his mind or body hurt._

The officers had set up a tent for whenever he did return, a large, blazingly white contraption that would surely drive Van mad. Fortunately, the rain had stopped just before they’d pitched camp, so the tents were relatively dry and comfortable. And Vanyel’s sat in the middle of them all, obviously untouched and unoccupied.

Every time he’d finished Singing to a tent of soldiers Declan and his cohort were Healing, he’d checked for Vanyel. _And every time, it was empty. Gods, I swore I wouldn’t tear myself to pieces worrying over him ever again._

Declan looked up at him from across their current tent as he bandaged a woman’s bloodied arm. Tying it tightly and brushing a warm cloth across her forehead, he stood, stretching his back.

“They’re all treated, here.” He moved to lay a hand on Stefen’s shoulder. “You look exhausted.”

 Stefen stopped his murmured singing. “I’m fine,” he replied hoarsely.

 “Is that why you sound like you smoked half the major’s pipeweed?” Declan raised a dubious eyebrow and smiled. “This was the last tent anyways. Go get some rest.”

They hadn’t pitched tent together; in fact, Stefen had been relatively insistent that they not, seeing as they’d already be working together the entire day. _He’s handsome enough, but I need a break. It’s not as if this is truly serious, yet._ Declan had seemed to agree; he hadn’t protested, and Stefen presumed healing wounded soldiers all day wasn’t exactly a precursor to physical intimacy.

“All right,” Stefen managed through the tightness in his throat. _I’d better save my voice._

As he opened the tent flap, his eyes immediately shot toward that lone white tent across the grounds, and widened at the sight he’d long been anticipating. _But I thought he’d be riding in heroically._

Even from here, he could see that Vanyel was in a state; his whites were muddied, ripped, and— _is that blood? That’s blood._ But worse, he was limping, one hand on Yfandes to steady himself. It wasn’t just exhaustion; Stefen knew how Vanyel walked when he was tired. _He’s hurt._

Major Tillson stepped into his line of sight, blocking him from Vanyel, and Stefen edged closer, slipping around the squat tents of the infantrymen and women. Pausing behind a tent close to the major’s, he could just make out the tail end of their conversation.

“…see the Healers’.” The major’s no-nonsense voice was easily identifiable.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Vanyel’s gentle baritone replied, weaker and thinner than usual. “I _am_ a Healer. I wouldn’t waste their talents on a scratch.”

Stefen imagined the major shaking his head dubiously at that last, just as he himself was doing, but eventually the man replied, “Have it your way then; I’ve no authority. But if it’s not better in the morning, milord…”

“Thank you, major. I wouldn’t worry. Get some rest, and so will I.” The hint of finality in Vanyel’s voice ended the conversation, and Stefen saw the major’s shadow slide back into his tent, adjacent to Vanyel’s.

_Dear gods. He’s going to let him get away with trying to heal himself, even burnt to a quick._ He knew he shouldn’t pry, and that it certainly was none of his business, but he also knew Vanyel. _He could be suffering a deadly hurt, and he would claim it was a bee sting. He really does_ not _look well._

When he judged it had been long enough that nobody would assume he was spying, or attempting to catch a glimpse of “Demonsbane,” he stepped out into the torchlights and made his way to the white tent that shone with an eerie, otherworldly light.

 As he approached, Yfandes lifted her head from where she lay sprawled outside the entry flap, sapphire-blue eyes meeting his with recognition. _I haven’t seen her since Forst Reach. I’m grateful she remembers me._ He hesitated for several long moments, but she tossed her head to the side, almost seeming to direct him in.

“Vanyel?” He wished his voice didn’t sound quite so like a croak.

Nothing. Yfandes shifted quietly, her head cocked, eyes distant. _Is she speaking him?_

He tried again. “Van?”

A muttered oath inside, then, to his surprise, Vanyel did appear, pulling the tent flap half open and beckoning him to enter. As soon as Stefen stepped in, Vanyel immediately shut it and limped over to fall into a half-sitting, half-laying position on his bedroll.

Up close, he looked far worse than he had from afar. His face was lined and utterly spent, his hair coated with dirt, dust, and worse; he’d already discarded his tunic and armor in a pile, and his unlaced shirt was an absolute wreck. His breeches, though still on, were well and truly bloodied, particularly— _around the groin area. Havens, he_ is _injured._

He tore his eyes away to meet Vanyel’s pained ones. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Finally, Vanyel let his eyes fall to the floor and sighed. “I’m sorry if I’m a bit short on courtesy, Stefen, but it _is_ good to see you.” He paused. “Even if the timing is unusual for a social call?”

“Havens, Van, I’m not here for _pleasantries_. You’re hurt,” he added, with a pointed look and gesture.

Vanyel followed his gaze, flushing. “Not in what I would call a convenient location, either.” He shook his head. “I was foolish and got ambushed by a stray group of fleeing soldiers. Yfandes barely managed to wake me in time; one of them had already got a cut in, despite my shields.”

“Why didn’t you want to see the Healers?” Stefen hoped his exasperation wasn’t too obvious in his tone.

“Why do you _think_?”  

_Oh._ Stefen eyed the wound again, noticing where the blood was darkest. _It must be awfully close to his…_ That was not a train of thought he should pursue, certainly not, because even filthy, exhausted, and hurt, Vanyel was a _beautiful_ man. _And I’ve been waiting my whole life to see him naked._

He blushed. “Well. I know it’s none of my business, but I _was_ worried. I could tell you were limping. It looks bad.”

“It looks worse than it is—remember, I’m a bit of a Healer.”

 “Yes, but Van, how were you even planning to get your breeches off?” They were clearly cloven to his body, stuck by rain, mud, and blood to the wound. _I imagine they need to be cut off._ He’d seen enough of similar injuries today to know exactly what would have to be done. _It’s rather difficult to slice your own pants off, though._

Vanyel looked down at himself a bit ruefully. “I have scissors?” He motioned toward a small saddlebag in the corner of the room. Fetching it, Stefen drew out two types of bandages, scissors, and what looked like a flask of hard alcohol.

Shaking his head, Stefen set the various supplies on a short stool within arm’s reach and perched on the edge of the bed. “I don’t mean to press, Van, but I _can_ help you. I’ve trained and partnered with the Healers.” 

“I saw that.” Vanyel’s tone sounded bitter, even to Stefen’s tired ears, and he shot him a surprised look. “Sorry,” Vanyel muttered, casting his eyes aside. “And yes, I suppose I do need the help, despite the… location.” Flushing again, he turned to uncork the flask. He took three deep swallows before offering it to Stefen, who accepted it with a raised eyebrow and slight smile.

“Last I recall, it was me trying to get you drunk.”

That earned him a tired chuckle. “Sometimes our wishes are granted.”

Vanyel’s flush deepened further with the alcohol, and he seemed to relax a bit. _He should drink more. This will hurt._ Taking a few swallows and stifling his shock at its strength, he returned the flask to Vanyel, who finished it with a slight grimace. _Gods, that’s like fire in my veins._ If the tent felt suddenly warmer to him, he could only image the effects on Vanyel, who’d drunk more than half of it. _He’s been in situations like this before, I assume, and knows the value of good drink._

“Are you ready?”

Vanyel had lain all the way back on the bed, his hands resting behind his head, and he nodded slowly. “Cut them off.”

Managing a soft hum despite the straining pain of his gift, Stefen set the scissors to the breeches, trying not to gag as he pulled them off the raw, split skin. _I was not made to be a true Healer._ The wound _was_ bad; worse than many he’d seen today, and the only thing that could possibly have staved off infection in the past hours was Vanyel’s Gift. Dousing the worst of the stuck cloth with a bit of water from his waterskin, he managed to pull it off with only a muffled moan from Vanyel.

Finished, he looked down at his handiwork with no small sense of pride. _He’d never have gotten them off alone._ It quickly dawned on him, however, that where he was staring was undeniably nude, and damned close to…

He averted his eyes, quickly, from what little Vanyel’s long shirt covered. _Not that I’m modest, but I know_ he _is._

Beads of sweat stood out on Vanyel’s forehead; he knew he hadn’t been able to block all the pain, and despite both his Gift and the alcohol, that must have hurt.

“Are you all right?”

 “Fine,” Vanyel replied through gritted teeth, pushing himself up a bit. “Shall we clean it?”

_Oh. Right._ But that meant touching him, and touching him very, very closely. _I should be too tired to want, right? And he’s not exactly in peak condition?_ The alcohol was burning ever-stronger in his blood, and from the too-bright look in Vanyel’s eyes, he was feeling it even more.

Ignoring his traitorous desires, which would most certainly _not_ be welcomed in this moment, he wet a cloth. _I’m not sure I even have enough clean water._

“Oh, no, not that.” Vanyel twisted and pulled a knife out of his discarded boot. A look of intense concentration in his eyes, he held it in his hands until it glowed red. Still waiting, not speaking, he let it dim, then pressed it against the wound in rapid, two-second bursts.

Stefen held his hand to his mouth in shock. _Havens, Van, that must hurt like the seven hells!_ But Vanyel wasn’t reacting visibly, other than biting his lip hard enough to draw a drop of blood. When he finished, he dropped the knife from his trembling hands and fell back hard against the bed.

“Vanyel…” Stefen reached a tentative hand to push damp locks of hair back from his face. _I’ve never dared to touch him so freely._ “I can’t believe you just did that _yourself_.”

Drawing in several heavy breaths, Vanyel finally turned an amused look on him. “It’s not the first time. You get used to it.” He pulled away from Stefen’s hand and tossed him the bandages. “Here. This, you can definitely help with.”

Stefen turned them hesitantly in his hand. _So I will have to touch him closely._ _Not that I’m opposed, but I hope he doesn’t think I’m trying to…_

“I know it’s an unusual… location.” Vanyel’s words slurred a bit, whether from exhaustion or alcohol, Stefen couldn’t tell, but the hint of humor in them surprised him. _He’s never so open._

“Oh, I don’t _mind_ ,” he replied quickly, then cursed himself. _Don’t sound so eager!_

 Vanyel laughed out loud. “Well, I suppose the tables are turned tonight. I do remember several injuries you acquired in odd places…”

_Those memories are painful, Van. Do they hurt for you too?_ Stefen didn’t bother to pursue that thought or to answer; he unrolled the bandage and began the slow, laborious process of placing it tightly, yet comfortably around Vanyel’s thigh. He was trying his best, he really was, _not_ to touch anything else, but his hand slipped slightly and brushed—

A rather impressive bulge, and half-hard; it stiffened further at his touch and Vanyel gasped, ever so slightly. Stefen didn’t dare to look up, a blush darkening his cheeks— _damn it, Van, I am_ not _shy, but what the hell would you have me do?_

He kept bandaging, pretending it hadn’t happened, his hands surer this time, more delicate—if he traced his fingers a bit closer than necessary, well, so be it. When he finished, he dared finally to meet Vanyel’s eyes once again—

Which were staring at him, dark with lust and drink, that normal mask tossed aside—and he sat up, shifted, his shirt slipping to reveal his undeniable arousal—

_Oh, fuck you, Vanyel. This is so unfair—I’ve never been one to say no—_

And Vanyel held out his hands, took Stefen’s, pulled him down to the bedroll with surprising strength and certainty— _we should talk, we really should talk—_

But Vanyel did not seem so inclined; he drew his fine hands that Stefen had so longed to feel up his shirt; pulled it off, then his own; drew their bodies together, warm skin meeting, his erection pressing insistently against Stefen’s thigh, heavy and obvious—

_We should talk_ , but. His own arousal shocked him, spiking unexpectedly, and he pulled his breeches off, letting their cocks rub together. Vanyel _moaned_ , a delightful sound, a sound he’d never thought he’d hear, and his breath was coming in short gasps as Stefen wrapped a hand around them both, careful of the injury, firm and steady—

_We really should talk._ Their lips met, preventing any and all dialogue, and the kiss was warm, deep, and knowing—Gods only knew how long it had been since Vanyel did this, but talent certainly hadn’t deserted him; kissing him was like coming home, all sweetness and softness and passionate touch of tongue—

He wouldn’t be long for this, but clearly, neither would Van; he was sighing and breathing quickly into Stefen’s touches when their lips broke, his whole body tensing until he spilled white, hot, wonderful--

Stefen’s ecstasy rose, driving his breath out of him, stronger than anything he’d felt before— _Damn you, damn you, I knew you’d drive me mad—_

When it left him, he fell boneless and naked next to Vanyel, the tent silent save their shared breath.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graphic sex scene (more than last chapter). Sorry. I felt like they needed more sex before talking.

Vanyel woke in the early morning hours with a slight ache in his groin and a throbbing erection. _Holy hells, did we—did I—_

And the undeniable feeling of a lovely cock pressed up against his ass confirmed that they, indeed, had. Stefen’s body was warm against his, his breathing rhythmic in his ear. He was clearly still asleep, but he was as hard as Vanyel was, and—

 _Dear Gods, thoughts are difficult. I_ want _him._ He should care, about something else, surely—duty, the Karsites, what this all meant—but his body had other ideas. It dawned on him that he was currently rubbing against Stefen, ever so gently, seeking out that feeling he had so missed. _A fine cock inside me, and I’m sure he’d be willing—damn the Karsites, damn duty, the sun hasn’t quite dawned and I could die any day out here. I’ve already crossed the line of friendship—and, perhaps, of the right thing—_

Stefen was waking up behind him, he could sense his mind slowly coming into awareness— _that’s odd, in an ungifted—_ but he didn’t take the time to analyze it, just let Stefen’s hands roam, travel down. When they reached his hardness, took it in hand, he moaned softly, his movements becoming more intense—

“Vanyel.” Stefen’s voice was shaky, still hoarse and over-used— _did we even speak last night?_ He had a vague memory of them cleaning up afterwards, wiping each other as clean they could with the bit of water and soft cloth. “Do you have…anything?”

He knew what Stefen meant, and Fetched the massage oil he kept in his bags without a second thought, ignoring the pain in his still-raw channels. When he twisted to hand it to Stefen, he looked duly impressed by the small magic and absolutely, undeniably— _beautiful. Stef, I want you in every part of me._

A slight smile playing about his lips, Stefen set the oil to the side— _what?_ —and bent down, pushed Vanyel onto his back, trailed kisses down his body, and set his mouth in an entirely different place— _Havens, hells, that’s—I’ve never—oh dear gods, oh holy fuck—_

His mind was even more incoherent now, and Stefen’s tongue was— _a gift from the gods, I’m—I can’t—it’s—_ his cock was leaking now, his own body so far past his mastery he could not even manage a steady hand on it; he was quite sure he was shaking, trembling, his face utterly slack—

And Stefen stopped. Vanyel _whimpered_ , too far gone to be ashamed of the sound, desperate for the contact—Stefen’s smile widened; he uncorked the bottle now and slowly, carefully oiled his cock as Vanyel watched, speechless. _Please, please, I need you—_

He was satisfied to see, at least, that he wasn’t the only one shaking—Stefen’s hands trembled, ever so slightly on his cock, as he gently entered--it hurt, a bit, but mostly it felt… _so damn good. So good. So fucking good._ He let the world and all his cares fall away, his artifice and masks tumbling easily aside; the slide of Stefen’s cock and the feeling of being filled all he was really made for, he was sure; it was _perfect_ , absolutely _perfect_ inside of him.

When he looked up, Stefen’s eyes met his, damp with ecstasy and— _love._ Somehow he knew that, in the depths of himself, and it shredded his last reserves as Stefen struck a deeper note inside of him. He felt himself dropping shields he hadn’t even known he had, unintentionally, and suddenly, it was as if he was feeling Stefen’s pleasure in rhythmic beats with his own, an overwhelming flood of sensation. The desperate, hungry look on Stefen’s face assured him he wasn’t alone; when he finally stroked his cock once, twice, three times, they came in such blinding ecstasy that the world turned white.

He simply lay there, minutes, until the world returned piece by piece: white tent, beige bedroll, red hair. _My red hair. My Stefen, myself._ His unconsciously possessive sentiments seemed off, somehow, but exhaustion overtook him as Stefen snuggled closer into him, equally worn-out and sated. Losing the trail of thought, he let the world disappear again, this time into the darkness of sound sleep.

*** 

Stefen woke slowly, a warm satisfaction seeping through all his limbs and a body pressed closely to him. _Wha…Declan…no. Oh, dear gods. It_ did _happen._ He didn’t dare move, for fear of waking Vanyel. _It happened, and now I can_ never _go back._ No chance of that, not with the remembered bits of ecstasy tainting his mind forever against another. _I knew I loved him, but I don’t think I even knew sex could be_ that _good._

And entirely fraught with complications. He stood carefully, drew his discarded breeches back on, and stared down at the man he’d slept with. In sleep, Vanyel’s face looked peaceful, relaxed, and so, so lovely, his almost-white hair spread like a halo on the pillow. _Good gods, no one should be allowed to look that good._ The blanket they’d shared covered some of his body; the rest was a mess of long, lithe limbs and tantalizing swaths of pale skin. _I will never, ever want anyone like I want him._

What, exactly, had made the sex so unbelievable? _He’s a good kisser, yes, and havens know I never expected him to surrender like that…_ the memory of Vanyel’s pleasure-struck face and pliant body shuddering into his was enough to make him half-hard again. _But it was that bit at the end—his mind magic?—the way I could feel what he was._ That had been the cause of the deep ecstasy, the sensation of almost having two orgasms at once.

 _And now what?_ There was no way he’d want Declan to so much as touch him now, unfortunately. _He’s a fine Healer, and a good man. I should have been more honest with him._ But it would’ve sounded ridiculous, saying that he _thought_ he might have a chance with Vanyel, so they should break off their not-even relationship. It wasn’t as if he had a reputation for being serious, at any rate. _Really, honestly, Van had better not run away this time. He has well and truly ruined me for anyone else. I feel as obsessed as when we first met…even_ more so _now that we crossed into the physical._

Another thought, quick on the heels of that one: _he wasted five years we could have had together._ He tried to suppress the futile burst of anger; it wasn’t as if he would deny Vanyel a relationship now, so why rage about the past? _And if he doesn’t want something now, I might cut that beautiful head off of its lovely body._


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This will be the end of this fic, for now, unless I decide to add an epilogue back at Haven.

 

The major’s voice ringing loudly through his tent was _not_ Vanyel’s preferred way to awaken. Sunlight struck through every space of the tent, informing him that it was long past morning. He cracked one eye, then the other, surprised by how rested and recovered he felt. When he stretched his limbs, testing, he reassessed: he didn’t just feel good, he felt _amazing._

His eyes opening fully, he turned his head to stare straight into— _Stefen’s eyes. Stefen and I._ The sudden flood of memories was almost _too_ pleasant, and shot straight through to his… _Again?_ _After twice last night?_

His thoughts were, at least, a bit clearer this morning. _I daren’t speak._ The major was obviously right outside the door, and Vanyel didn’t know _what_ Stefen’s feelings were on the matter, nor did he presume to assume. _Did I intrude on a—relationship—he had? I know I initiated things…but he wasn’t exactly opposed—_

No time to consider all the ramifications now. He just shook his head at Stefen, throwing off the light blanket, forgetting that he was— _utterly nude. But he doesn’t seem to mind._ Stefen had shrugged in response to his head shake, and sat on the low table with an unreadable look in his eyes. His gaze followed Vanyel as he bent to search for clean whites in his pack, the pain in his groin mercifully faded— _of course, I am feeding it Healing energy; my reserves are wonderfully renewed—_ and when Vanyel craned his head to look questioningly at Stefen, he only directed a slightly lascivious smirk at his naked backside.

_O_ _h, gods, that thing he did last night—_ and so many parts of him felt different, he wasn’t sure how to react. Mainly, he just felt so damned _good_ , and it struck him that he felt better than he had since— _‘Lendel? What in the hells?_

“Herald-mage? Milord?” The major’s voice boomed more loudly into the tent this time, and Vanyel cursed as he pulled his clean breeches up too quickly over the bandage.

“One moment, Major, I’m getting dressed.”

“Sorry, milord.” The man sounded truly contrite. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Tossing a fresh shirt on, Vanyel took one last look at Stefen’s shuttered eyes, then slipped out the tent flap.

Major Tillson stood at full formal attention. “Milord.”

_I wish he’d call me by my name, but that always makes the officers uncomfortable._ “Major, sir. Good day,” he added, looking at the sun, which was almost at its zenith. _Gods, it must be noon. I can’t believe I slept that long. Even with my night’s….interruptions._

“I was worried about your leg, sir. It didn’t look good last night. I don’t mean to intrude, but when you didn’t come out this morning, I had to check.”

“Thank you.” Vanyel hoped his smile came off as genuine and not annoyed. _He really did mean well._ “I usually don’t sleep so late.”

“Well, you were surely exhausted. And there was no need to wake early—it’s only a few candlemarks’ ride back to town; we won’t leave for another.” The major returned his smile. “You look far better, sir, if that’s not too forward.”

“It’s not.” _Just don’t ask me why._ “I feel much improved. I’ll gather my things, then, and be ready to move on your order.”

“Yes, milord. Thank you.”

_For what?_

Noting his confusion, the major gestured vaguely in the direction of Weston. “For yesterday, sir. We would never have won without you. Only a dozen casualties to report, too.”

_Oh. He’s thanking me for my butchering skills. Well, at least the Valdemaran troops were saved._ “Of course, Major. It’s only my duty.” He nodded formally at him, and the major backed off, bowing.  _He’s so stiff, but not afraid, thank havens. For once._

When he returned into the tent, Stefen’s stare pierced straight through him. He imagined he could feel a bit of bottled frustration and uncertainty—but none of it was his own. _All right. Think before speaking, Vanyel. You sure as hell did_ not _think last night._ _Why is this all so… much?_

And it hit him. _That feeling… that wholeness, that rightness in the world, no gaping voids inside…knowing what_ he _knows..._ it didn’t make sense; it couldn’t make sense. His other Sense of Stefen echoed with emotions directly opposed to his own dawning wonder, a slow shift from worry to slight anger.

“Regrets?” Stefen’s voice quavered from his perch on the stool, surely more than he’d intended it to.

“No!” _That’s what he thinks?_ “No, gods no, Stef.” He moved closer, sat on the bedroll. “I just need a moment. I’m trying to make sense of things.” Stefen looked at him, confused. “Do you not See it?”

His face went blank; Vanyel knew the look, that of a Gifted seeking inside himself. When color returned, his eyes were wide. “What is that?”

“A lifebond,” Vanyel whispered, stroking Stefen’s face with one hand, feeling its sharp angles soften under his hand. _I can’t deny I love him now, can I? I suppose I knew it all along._ “That’s what it feels like.” _‘Lendel…_ but he couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for what he’d done, not now, not after all these years of holding himself back. _I know you’d want it for me, ashke._ He was amazed at his own sense of peace— _but really, why should I tie myself in knots over it? We’ve all suffered so much…_

And the soul-wracking pleasure of what he’d done last night was _not_ something he’d give up again.

Stefen still seemed to be processing it. Shaking his head slowly, he leaned into him, perhaps despite himself. Vanyel Felt his emotions shifting again. “Are you… upset about it?”

“Absolutely not.” Vanyel wrapped a possessive arm around him, drawing him even closer. “No, Stefen. I only regret that I was such a fool for so long.” He smiled. “And mostly, I’m glad Yfandes made me let you into my tent.”

Stefen managed a weak chuckle, his entire expression relaxing into something close to joy, mixed with awe. “Me too.” He paused. “I do wonder what rumors will start if anyone finds me here.”

“For your sake, or mine?” The question was honest, not petty. _Not with what we have. I have no reason to fear._

“Yours.” Stefen looked at him nervously. “Do you want me to slip away?”

“Havens, no, Stef.” Pushing a lock of his hair aside, Vanyel bent to kiss his cheek. “Not now. Not ever, I suppose. Will… all your affairs be fine?”

“Oh, that.” Stefen spread his hands, a bit helplessly. “It’s probably not my most honorable way of ending things, but I daresay he won’t be surprised. I’ve always been…distant.” He looked away. “I never cared for much more than a night or two with anyone but you.”

_Good._ “I’m grateful.” At Stefen’s inquisitive glance, he shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t care to share.”

Stefen smiled wickedly then, all his doubts seemingly cast aside, and ran a casual hand up Vanyel’s thigh. “Me neither.” His body responded instantly, scattering his thoughts once more— _I should never go so long ago; I’m insatiable—_ and he gasped as Stefen’s hand drew higher. _Is there even time?_

Then, the thought that he perhaps should have had years ago: _I will make the time. I will always, always make the time._


End file.
